Is this me?

My mind,
wordlessly hovers on the edge of sanity;
how frail,
it ought to be banished to Fear's gravity.

My lips,
whisper naught a need for sin city;
they pine,
for the distant years to halt this self-pity.

Fingers,
they ought to trace edges carved so pretty
but now,
my life is written and left to be critiqued.